Authors: Annette Meyers
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Women's Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Financial, #Contemporary Fiction, #Crime Fiction
Tender Death (28 page)
“L
ISTEN
, W
ETZON
,” Joe Flanagan said. “I don’t care how you do it, but I want you to deliver De Haven.”
“I’ll do my best, Joe.” Whatever Joe Flanagan wanted, Joe Flanagan got. He was head of the region in retail sales for Loeb Dawkins.
“No, Wetzon, that’s not good enough. I want this guy. He’s supposed to be here at twelve today. I don’t want him to slip away. You get him here, and I’ll have a contract ready. I don’t want to hear Shearson got him. They’re all after him, but I want him. You get him for me.”
“Okay, Joe.”
Seig heil,
she thought as she hung up the phone. “Jesus. How the hell am I going to do that?”
Smith opened the door and poked her dark tousled head in, catching Wetzon’s last words. She grinned impishly. “Good morning, good morning, darling Wetzon. What’s up? Do what? Here B.B., hang up my coat, will you, there’s a dear.” She came in and closed the door behind her. She was wearing a taupe silk outfit with a wide brown alligator belt and high-heeled brown leather boots. Her olive skin had a ruddy sheen from the cold and her dark-lashed oval eyes glowed with goodwill.
“My, you look terrific, partner,” Wetzon said. It was amazing how Smith’s moods careered from highs to lows. It was also nice that she was now on a high. Or was it?
“Oh Lord, I feel terrific,” Smith said, raising her arms to the ceiling and opening them wide, heaving a great, satisfied sigh. She flipped through her stack of pink message slips and then tossed them all into the wastebasket under her desk.
“Oh, Smith.”
“Oh, Wetzon,” Smith mocked. “How the hell are you going to do what?” Her attention switched to her fingernails. “I need a manicure.”
“Get Kevin De Haven for Joe Flanagan. Deliver him gift wrapped, for godsake. Joe ordered him.”
“Does De Haven want to be delivered?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well come on now, Wetzon, call him and find out.”
Wetzon punched up De Haven’s number.
“De Haven.”
“Kevin. Wetzon. How did your meeting go with Joe Flanagan yesterday?”
“Wetzon, pal, don’t get me wrong. He’s a terrific guy. I really like him. All these guys you’ve introduced me to are swell guys. But I’m thinking right now I’ll stay with Merrill.”
“Stay at Merrill? And take a payout cut that steep?”
“Tell you the truth, Wetzon. My manager and Dan Tompkins, the head of our region, took me to Lutèce last night for dinner. They really went all out. Jesus, we cracked a bottle of wine a hundred years old. It was something. And you know this guy has been like a father to me—”
Wetzon’s heart sank. “Kevin, how much did they offer you to stay?”
“They said they wouldn’t take all of the institutional accounts away from me, just some—”
“Just the biggest ones.”
“Aw, Wetzon.”
“And what about the payout? Can you keep the twenty-eight percent?”
“They said instead of reducing me to eleven percent, they would give me eighteen.”
“And you’re going to accept that?”
You schmuck
, she thought.
“They’ve been so decent to me, Wetzon.”
“They’re screwing you, Kevin. What’s Flanagan offering you?”
“Well, a quarter of a mil up front and other stuff.”
“Did you tell your manager that?”
“Oh yeah, listen, I’ve been absolutely honest with them. I wouldn’t not tell them. I’m that kinda guy. You know me, Wetzon.”
“What did they say to that?”
They probably said, drink up, schmuck.
“They said I shouldn’t take it. I’d be throwing my career away here. Wetzon, honest, he’s like a father to—”
“Kevin, I just want to ask you one thing and then we’ll let it go. If you had a son and he was offered a quarter of a million dollars to move to another major firm where he could continue to do his kind of business without interference from the firm, and at a higher payout, would you tell him not to take it?”
De Haven groaned. “Don’t do that to me, Wetzon.”
“I just ask you to consider clearly what your choices are, what they are offering you and what Joe is offering you. Joe tells me you’re coming back to see him at twelve today.”
“I don’t know, Wetzon. I just don’t know.”
“Kevin, I’ll pick you up in a cab and take you to Joe’s, then wait for you and take you back to the office. How’s that?”
“Aw, Wetzon.”
“I’ll be downstairs in front of your building at quarter to twelve. Don’t think about it, just do it. It’ll all work out, I promise you. I’ll call you just before I leave my office.” She hung up the phone, tingling with a kind of triumph, as if she’d won a race. She had, temporarily at least, outsold a great salesman. A wave of euphoria hit her like a sudden madness, and she turned her face to Smith, who let out a loud whoop.
“Delicious,” Smith said, applauding. “Oh God, what a fee that will be.”
“Let’s not count it until it’s ours.”
Then they both recited their litany, “It’s not over till it’s over. And even when it’s over, it’s not over.”
“I love the way that looks on you,” Wetzon said. Wetzon had the same outfit in black. They’d bought it at Loehmann’s last fall.
“You’ve never even worn yours. Don’t you like it?”
“It’s down to the floor on me. Karan cuts for people like you ... and her. I need about six or seven inches taken off and I haven’t had time to take it to Sebastian.”
“You haven’t even noticed something else about me today,” Smith accused, hands on hips, smiling.
She’d noticed that Smith was in a great mood, but how to say it? “I don’t know, Smith.” She studied Smith with narrowed eyes. “There’s something about you today.”
Smith thrust her left hand under Wetzon’s nose. She was wearing a monumental diamond on her finger. “Leon and I are engaged!”
Wetzon took Smith’s long thin hand. The ring was made up of baguettes of diamonds and emeralds arranged in a circle, coming to a raised peak with a huge diamond in the center. She felt sick. The ring looked exactly like the one Arleen had worn at dinner. God, Leon was a shit. She covered her feelings with enthusiasm. “What a magnificent ring! Congratulations! I’m so happy for you.” Wetzon put her arms around Smith, who turned sweet and girlish on her.
“It
is
beautiful and it
is
wonderful.”
“And you deserve the very best of everything.”
The telephone, which had been silent, rang. They both looked at their phones. Two calls had come in at once.
“I certainly do. Did you see how it’s set? It’s an antique. It’s been in Leon’s family for—”
B.B. opened the door. “Leon for you, Smith.”
“Let me talk to him for a minute,” Wetzon said. “I want to congratulate him.” She reached for the phone.
“No!” Smith said sharply, then softened. “Not yet. I’ll tell you when it’s okay.” She picked up the phone. “Leon, sweetie pie.” She sat down at her desk and hunched over the phone, closing Wetzon out.
Wetzon returned to her own work. What a strange and secretive person her partner was. She wondered again about the advisability of having their lawyer be one of their husbands. Maybe she should talk it over with Arthur Margolies.
Her thoughts swerved to Teddy. Another week had gone by and no word from Silvestri on what was happening, and there’d been no news in the papers about Teddy. In fact, his murder seemed no longer newsworthy. It was almost as if the whole experience of finding him alive had been a dream. “You’ve got a great imagination, kid,” she murmured, imitating Silvestri.
Smith made kissing noises and replaced the receiver on the phone. She took up their earlier conversation. “After you deliver De Whoozis, let’s go get a facial.”
“But I have so much work to do. Besides, we’ll never get a last minute appointment at Georgette Klinger’s.”
“Come on, Wetzon, what’s really hot on the fire? And don’t tell me that decrepit old charity case you’re peddling all over the Street in our name. I have this wonderful new place for us to go for a facial. Katerina opened her own salon. Katerina of Hungary. Sounds nice doesn’t it?”
“Katerrina of Hungarry,” Wetzon said. “Drrinks yourr blood while she worrks on yourr skin.”
“Be serious, Wetzon. She’s taken a few of Klinger’s ladies with her. Let’s do it. I’ll call.” Smith smiled at her. “Just us girls.”
Wetzon thought briefly about the pampered luxury of having a facial. “You’re absolutely right. I should be clear after two-thirty, I would think. Make us appointments for after that. It’ll be nice.” They smiled fondly at each other.
“Oh, by the way, I almost forgot,” Smith said. “What was the name of that crazy old lady who jumped out of the window?”
“Peepsie. No, I mean, Evelyn Cunningham. And she wasn’t crazy and she didn’t jump. Someone pushed her.”
“Whatever.” Smith dismissed her correction with an impatient wave of her hand.
Wetzon was thinking that maybe after her facial she would look in on Hazel.
“I thought you said Cunningham. I heard two women in my elevator discussing the Cunningham collection that’s going to be auctioned off at Yorkeby’s next week.”
“Cunningham Collection? I suppose that’s possible. They’re an old New York family. Could be a relative.”
“Didn’t you tell me the place was full of antiques?”
“It was. A lot of Oriental stuff. Big vases, porcelains, carved screens, bronze pieces. You know.”
“Do you have the
Times
?”
Wetzon pulled the half-read
Times
from her carryall and thumbed through it looking for the auction announcements, with Smith hovering over her shoulder.
“There it is.” Smith pointed to a headline “Cunningham Collection at Yorkeby’s” in Rita Reif s “Auctions” column. It was just a brief mention of the eclecticism of the collection that was to be auctioned with several other small collections at Yorkeby’s the following week.
“I guess Marion’s taken charge.”
“Who’s Marion?”
“Peepsie’s niece, the one who’s been living in Europe. Hazel told me she was coming in to settle the estate.”
“Now why couldn’t I have a long-lost Aunt Peepsie,” Smith said enviously. “Let’s go to the exhibition. Look, it says the viewing goes on until five. We can go after our facial. Wouldn’t it be fun to see what it looks like? Maybe we can even buy a piece.”
Wetzon’s eyes rested on the ad for Yorkeby’s next to the article mentioning the collection. Pictured in the ad was one of the two huge vases that had stood on either side of the archway before the entrance to Peepsie’s living room.
She closed her eyes, and the room manifested itself on her eyelids. She saw Ida, felt Peepsie’s fear. A fragment of an idea sparked like the last tiny light on the tip of a candle that remains for a moment after you blow out the flame.
“Yes, let’s,” she said to Smith.
D
E
H
AVEN WAS
not standing in front of the Pan Am Building as they had arranged, which didn’t surprise her. So here she was waiting again. In her previous life, performers often sat around waiting for directors and choreographers to work their magic. “‘They also serve who only stand and wait,’” she said out loud. “So what do you think, Michael Stewart?”
Michael Stewart grunted at her. He’d been double-parked across the street when she came out of her office and she readily admitted to herself and to him, she was glad to see him.
She addressed the back of Stewart’s neck where his hair bunched at the collar of his red flannel shirt. “I’m going to find a phone and call him.”
Her watch read twelve o’clock. Damn him. She found a pay phone in the lobby and took the scrap of paper on which she’d scrawled De Haven’s phone number out of her coat pocket.
“Mr. De Haven’s office.” The voice on the line was young and crisp.
Blast. He usually answered his own phone. “Mr. De Haven, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Mrs. Goldstein.”
“Hold on, Mrs. Goldstein.”
“De Haven.”
“Where are you, De Haven? I’m waiting downstairs.”
“Mrs. Goldstein! How nice of you to call.” De Haven had a thundering laugh. “I was just on my way out to lunch. Can we talk in a little while?”
“A very little while.” She hung up the phone grumbling and went back out to Forty-fifth Street. The cool wind swooped across the open plaza but didn’t seem to bother anyone. Workers were going out to buy lunch from the food carts lined up on Forty-fifth Street that sold everything from falafel and hot dogs to burritos and egg rolls. Some people were already carrying paper packages back from one of the multitude of salad bars in the area. Snow still lay in dirty frozen piles here and there, but most of the physical evidence of blizzard had disappeared, eroded by the grime and perpetual motion of New York City.
She opened the rear door of the cab and looked back. De Haven was coming toward her, coatless, looking like a celebrity in a gray pin-striped suit. She watched women’s heads turn as he passed them.
“Wetzon, old pal,” he said, clapping her on the shoulder.
They settled back and she repeated Joe Flanagan’s address on Fifty-first Street and Sixth Avenue to Michael Stewart.
“You know, Wetzon, you really did it to me.”
“Did what?”
“You know. Put the knife in.” He grinned at her, salesman to salesman. “By asking me would I tell my son to give up a quarter of a mil.”
They went up to Flanagan’s office together.
“He’s in your good hands now,” Wetzon said to Lauren, Flanagan’s assistant, after Lauren, a thin young woman in a softly tailored black suit, ushered De Haven into Flanagan’s office.
“Jay Campo’s in there with him,” Lauren said. “Joe says you don’t have to wait.” Her phone jangled and she went to answer it.
Dis—missed, Wetzon said to herself. It was all right with her. She found a pay phone in the lobby and called the office. “Hi, Harold. Any calls for me?”
“I’ll ask Smith. Hold on.”
“Wait!” Damn. He was gone. Why the hell would he have to ask Smith? It was really irritating.
“Hi, sweetie pie. How did it go?”
“Fine, I guess. Joe’s smooth. I think we’ll have a done deal. He had Jay Campo here to clinch it. Are you taking my calls?”
“No, sugar, do you want me to?”
“No, that’s all right. I don’t understand why Harold couldn’t just read me my messages.”
“Because you don’t have any, sweetie, and he knew I wanted to talk to you the minute you called in.”
“Oh. Okay. What time is our facial?”
“Two-thirty. I have Katerina and you have Saskia. Aren’t you coming back?”
“I thought I’d grab a sandwich and see what bargains I can find at Saks.”
“Oh no fair. I want to go with you.”
“Then meet me there. I’ll be wandering around the second floor about one o’clock or so.”
“I can’t, sweetie.” She was suddenly mysterious. Her voice dropped as if she didn’t want anyone else to hear, which was ridiculous because no one else was there. “I’m having lunch with—”
“Excuse me,” B.B. interrupted. “I have a message for Wetzon.”
“Really, B.B., this is most unprofessional,” Smith snapped angrily.
“It’s okay, Smith. What’s the message, B.B.?”
“Hazel Osborn called. She’d like you to call her.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“No.”
“Then you may hang up, B.B.,” Smith said. The chill in her voice was powerful. There was an immediate click.
“Smith, really. He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“He should have given me the message to give to you, Wetzon. What if I was on an important call and he interrupted like that? You’re much too easygoing. That’s why everyone always takes advantage of you.”
“What—” Oh, forget it, she told herself. “Smith, do me one favor.”
“Anything, sugar.” Sweetness dribbled across the telephone lines.
Wetzon switched the receiver to her other ear. “If Silvestri calls, tell him where we’ll be—Katerina’s and then Yorkeby’s. Okay?”
“Well, of course, I will. You can count on me.”
She hung up the phone, put another quarter in the slot and punched out Hazel’s number. The line was busy.
She went out on to Sixth Avenue. Michael Stewart wasn’t around, so she crossed the street, heading for Fifth Avenue. The backstage entrance to Radio City Music Hall was about quarter of the way down the block and the door was open. The dancers were taking a break, eating, gossiping.
Wetzon stopped for a minute and watched the group of girls in dance work clothes, high-cut leotards, shiny tights, leg warmers, plastic sweatpants, T-shirts and sweatshirts, towels rolled around long thin necks. She closed her eyes for a minute, breathing in the nostalgic smell of perfume, sweat, and makeup, and felt a tiny tug of yearning which drew her closer to the door, like a voyeur.
“Wetzon! Is that you?” She opened her eyes. One of the dancers pulled away from a group.
“Margie.” Wetzon went right through the open door and hugged the lithe creature, a flashier double of herself, with a reddish Clairol’d topknot. Margie’s breastbone and collarbones were particularly pronounced. There wasn’t a drop of extra flesh on her.
They stood holding each other, arms on arms.
“You look wonderful—”
“So do you.”
“Not since
Chorus Line—”
“Remember—”
“How are you?”
“What’ve you been doing?”
“Headhunting? My God, how about Carlos?”
“You ought to call him.”
“I’ve meant to. I will. I’ve been here for the last six months. I’m lucky to have it—steady work, I mean.”
“Your little girl—”
“Eight now. Do you believe it? Darren’s on the Coast. He got married again, you know.”
“I didn’t know.” Makeup could not cover the age lines around her eyes and mouth.
“Break’s over.” The dancers began moving into the depths of the Music Hall’s backstage area.
“Time to go back, I guess.”
“I guess.” Wetzon felt wistful.
“Take care, Wetzon.”
“You, too, Margie. Call Carlos.”
“I will.”
The meeting with Margie Lewis depressed Wetzon. Old dancers. What did they do? They were lucky to get jobs like Radio City. What could they do? She no longer felt like shopping. When she got to Saks, she went to the phone booths on the street floor and tried Hazel again.
A heavily accented woman’s voice answered after four rings. For a moment Wetzon had
déjà vu.
The woman sounded like Ida.
“I’m very sorry. I must have the wrong number. I was calling Ms. Hazel Osborn.”
“You haff correct number” the voice said. “Ms. Osborn iz resting.” “Who is this?”
“I am Basha. Home attendant.”
